


Fight, Flight, and Fury

by Feygan



Category: Batman - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Character, Batman bashing, Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:10:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feygan/pseuds/Feygan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After leaving the Scarecrow to face the Batman, Nigma gets pulled in to face the music. He turns things around.</p><p>"Being a criminal in Gotham was like being a baker anywhere else. It was just something people did to make a living. At any given moment there were dozens of henchmen ready and willing to take on a job, and that was all it was to them, a way to make money. There was no moralizing about right and wrong, there was only the fear of being caught.</p><p>"Edward Nigma, commonly known as the Riddler, didn't usually bother with hiring henchmen. His plans didn't require outside help for the most part, plus there was the pesky need to pay them. No, he'd much rather handle things on his own, which explained why he was already on edge when the Batman appeared outside his warehouse.</p><p>"The once simple plan had grown out of proportion with the escape of the Joker from Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. As usual, the clown's mere presence tended to stir up trouble."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the 2014 Riddler Reverse Bang. http://riddlerrbb14.livejournal.com/  
> Artwork by Parvus-Pica. http://picas-art.tumblr.com

Being a criminal in Gotham was like being a baker anywhere else. It was just something people did to make a living. At any given moment there were dozens of henchmen ready and willing to take on a job, and that was all it was to them, a way to make money. There was no moralizing about right and wrong, there was only the fear of being caught.

Edward Nigma, commonly known as the Riddler, didn't usually bother with hiring henchmen. His plans didn't require outside help for the most part, plus there was the pesky need to pay them. No, he'd much rather handle things on his own, which explained why he was already on edge when the Batman appeared outside his warehouse.

The once simple plan had grown out of proportion with the escape of the Joker from Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. As usual, the clown's mere presence tended to stir up trouble.

The Batman was always more ruthless when the Joker was on the loose. His punches were harder and there was a sense of barely restrained rage about him, a frustration with having to handle criminals that weren't the one he really wanted: the Joker.

Nigma had thought it prudent to hire himself a handful of henchmen. They were useless for his plan, but he figured he could throw them at the Batman if the caped crusader decided to show up.

Giving the Batman other targets to beat on seemed like the perfect idea. Nigma really did not like being punched in the head by someone wearing armored gauntlets. He'd already lost three teeth to the Batman's aggressive tendencies. He didn't like to think of the bruised kidney he'd received the arrest before last. He'd peed blood for several days and worried he might have ruptured something.

Having henchmen on hand to fight the Batman seemed like a worthy expense. They would buy him the time to escape, and if he were lucky the Batman would have worn down some of his energy and might decide to be civilized with his vigilante assaults.

And that was what Nigma saw them as: assaults. It wasn't as though most of the criminals the Batman brutally attacked remained behind bars for very long. The Batman didn't provide testimony, and even if he did it wouldn't have held up in court--vigilante "justice" was illegal, and most of the evidence he collected was thrown out at trial. The mere presence of the Batman at crime scenes could be seen as a form of evidence tampering and had created reasonable doubt in numerous cases.

Nigma himself had escaped a considerable prison term due to the Batman's involvement with his case. His lawyer had argued that the Batman had planted evidence in the hope of stopping his "crime," and thus would be seen as a hero to the people.

"The Batman is no more than a parasite on the face of our society. He trammels on the rights of the citizens of Gotham and it is disgraceful how the police are incapable of bringing this costumed madman to justice."--Nigma had paid the Mad Hatter to cross-stitch the lawyer's quote onto a square of muslin that he'd had framed.

He'd looked at that quote every single day of his three month sentence in Arkham. The felony charges had been dropped, but the judge had questioned his mental health. He took it as a relaxing holiday from everyday life and had spent his free moments--of which there were many--planning out his next adventure as the Riddler.

The Batman's insistence on involving himself in the Gotham crime scene did no one any favors. There were times when Nigma was tempted to tell the man what a fool he was, but he did not relish the beating he would receive, so he kept silent.

Anyone with a modicum of sense would know that beating people and dragging them to jail--or leaving them bound for the police to find--did not count as a valid arrest. Criminals that faced the Batman were allowed to go free every day, and most of them became smarter about not getting caught.

Nigma could have told the Batman he was handling the situation in the wrong way, but things worked in his favor so he kept his mouth shut. He enjoyed the status quo.

Nigma sighed and straightened his hat, his free hand clenched on the head of his cane. He had so much to do. His current scheme involved dozens of key elements, any one of which could spell failure for his plan.

He would prefer to handle things himself, but circumstances forced him to depend on his hired muscle. With the Joker on the loose, the streets were not safe. Most Gothamites had taken to locking themselves in and only ventured out as they had to. The whole city would breathe a sigh of relief once the Clown Prince of Crime was back behind bars where he belonged.

If ever there was someone that needed a good execution, it was the Joker. But no matter how many innocent people he tortured or killed, he was always sent back to Arkham. Where he would giggle over his press releases and wait a few months before escaping again, the perpetually underfunded mental hospital unable to hold him.

"I wish the Batman would just kill him. It would be a kindness to the victims. At the very least he should quit stopping the police from doing it," Nigma mused. But he knew why the Batman protected the Joker--he didn't want to lose one of his precious playthings.

It was like the owner of a vicious dog fighting to keep the animal from being put down. "He only mauled one child. Fluffy is usually completely friendly. He must have been goaded into attacking."

Nigma liked to see himself as being one of the Batman's favored rogues, but he was not at the level of pure evil that the Joker existed on. He did not strike such an overwhelming brand of terror in every man, woman, and child that thought of him.

The Joker was a primal force. And the Batman allowed him to continue his reign of terror. Even going so far as to protect him from the justice he deserved. It made the streets of Gotham unsafe for normal citizens and everyday rogues.

Such as myself, he thought.

The Batman's refusal to allow the Joker his just desserts meant Nigma was forced to work in unfavorable conditions with an unsavory element.

He sighed, missing the better class of henchmen he could usually afford, but funds were tight at the moment and he would have to make do until his latest scheme saw some profitable returns.

Nigma tightened his grip on his question mark cane and closely watched the preparation of his gift for Gotham. It was nearly ready for delivery to the Municipal Courthouse and the lovely Judge Dodd. He hoped she enjoyed a good puzzle, because he'd definitely outdone himself this time.

"Boss, we've got Bats on our security cams," Webber called. He was the henchman Nigma had trusted to monitor the CCTV cameras set up around the building.

Nigma was tempted to curse, but he bit back the foul words. "Why is he bothering us?"

"No idea... oh." Webber tapped at his keyboard. "I see henchclowns out there, lots of them."

"Which means the Joker's out there." Nigma tapped his cane on the floor and frowned. He hated abandoning his plans, but considering his last dealings with the Joker, he definitely did not want to run into the clown.

"Finish boxing that up," he ordered two henches with a wave. He pointed at a third. "You, grab a partner and make sure it's delivered. There's a bonus if you see things through. The rest of you, salvage what you can of the equipment and we'll meet up at the C-Street tunnel tomorrow at noon."

There were some criminals that would have ignored the warning inherent in the presence of both the Batman and the Joker, trusting that everything would somehow turn out all right. For himself, he was getting out while the getting was good.

"Away with us," he said.

There was a shuffle of movement behind him, but Nigma was already headed toward the rear exit. He didn't want to have any surprise run-ins with the Batman.

Instead, much to his horror, he took two steps down the alley and crossed paths with a purple suit wearing Joker.

"Well, heh heh, well. What do we have here?" that nightmare voice asked, as the man himself stepped out of the shadows and into full view.

Nigma cursed his luck, but there was nothing he could do but to keep moving forward. He pasted a cool expression of non-surprise on his face. "I see they let you out on bail."

The Joker laughed. "Funny man." Then he sobered. "I make the jokes, understand? I make the people laugh and the crowds cheer. You stick to your puzzles and your games."

Nigma clenched his hand on his cane. He wouldn't hesitate to take a swing at the Joker's head if he had to, though he could wish that his cane were packed with a more lethal surprise. He had not thought far enough ahead at all.

"Ah, perhaps I will refrain from sharing my humor," Nigma said. "I spotted the Bat lurking around, in case you didn't notice."

Joker peered over his shoulder. "I knew that he was looking to play tonight. Maybe I should make sure he finds me."

"At the very least, you wouldn't want him to get bored and wander off, now would you?" Manipulating the Joker was a dangerous game. The madman was like nitroglycerin, one wrong bump and he would go off in an explosion of violence and murder.

The Joker shot Nigma a terrifyingly direct look. Those strange eyes were searing in their intensity; Nigma felt stripped bare. "You, ah, you wouldn't be thinking to play me, now would you Eddie?"

"Of course not," Nigma said. "It's just that I have so much to do and I would like to be away from here without running across the Batman. You know how I abhor violence, especially when it's directed at my person."

"Hm. Run away now, Eddie-boy. We'll have to do lunch soon," the Joker said.

Nigma's smile was thin-lipped as he fought to push aside the sick feeling bubbling up in his stomach. "Enjoy playing with the Bat. And watch out for his fists. He does so love to break bone."

The Joker laughed, high-pitched and eerie. "But that's the best part, Eddie. You only hurt the ones you love, and the Batman always hurts me the most."

"Ah. Well, good, day to you." Nigma tipped the brim of his hat, then slunk away down the alley, careful not to turn his back. The last thing he wanted was to be the unwilling guest to a Joker party.

He wondered if the Batman knew that the Joker thought they were in love, or some facsimile thereof. He decided it was none of his business. They would figure out their relationship woes and oh noes on their own.

Once he reached the end of the alley and was on the open street, he didn't hesitate to begin running. The last place he wanted to end up was between an amorous Joker and an enraged Batman. It didn't seem good for his health.

Idly, he wondered if they followed the code of SSC, then mentally scoffed. Thinking of the Joker and the Batman in conjunction with the sentiment of Safe, Sane, and Consensual was a bit ridiculous.

They'd probably beat each other with metal rods and think they were being romantic. He sneered at the idea of two madmen that regularly fought to the near-death falling in love. They'd burn the world down around them with their intensity, if the Joker didn't take things to literal extremes.

Nigma kept a wary eye out as he jogged down the street. Running into the Batman would be a catastrophe for his plans and his easily bruised skin, but there were other dangers that lurked the streets of nighttime Gotham. A robber's knife between the ribs could end his life as easily as a bad day with the Joker, and it would be a much more inglorious end.

Gotham truly was a stinking pit of crime. It was a sad state of affairs for a city that had once held so much potential. From growing metropolis to a den of violence and murder, where rapes went unreported for fear of reprisals. There were drug dealers on nearly every corner, or making deals out of vans parked in common alleys.

Nigma was not pleased to find his way blocked, especially when the potato sack covered head of the Scarecrow bobbed into view. If ever he had an anti-fan, it was the Scarecrow.

"How vexing," Nigma murmured. The Scarecrow was an annoyance he could do without--the man was erratic, switching from a nervous kind of politeness to the demented narcissism of the self-proclaimed Master of Fear.

Nigma really didn't want to experience a face full of fear toxin. He'd caught a little whiff in the past, and that was more than enough for him. The stuff had earned its fearsome reputation.

He thought about turning on his heel and leaving the alley. He could keep himself occupied for an hour or two and come back when the Scarecrow and his van were gone. Unfortunately, the Scarecrow had already spotted him.

"Riddler, what are you doing here?" the Scarecrow rasped, looming threateningly.

Nigma kept his expression coolly interested. "I was simply on an evening stroll. You know how it is, enjoying the puzzle that is life."

"I don't trust you," Scarecrow said. "I think you're here to upset my plans."

Nigma snorted. "Riddle me this, why would I even bother? I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you are the center of no one's world but your own."

There was a part of Nigma that was driven to baiting the very bad people he regularly dealt with. It was the same part of his personality that had regularly gotten him beaten up in middle school. Right up until he started introducing his unbeatable brain games and Scotty McPherson had to be sent away to a special school. Nigma had always seen that as a win for downtrodden kids everywhere, as wounds to the psyche cut deeper than any physical attack.

"I could make myself the center of your world," Scarecrow said, lifting the skull-shaped sprayer of fear toxin threateningly. Nigma took a strategic step back, and Scarecrow laughed. "Not so brave in the face of a little fear, are you?"

"I prefer to keep my mind my own, thank you very much." Nigma cast around for a way around the van or a point of escape. His eye was caught instead by a flutter of dark cape and the shadow of pointed ears on the rooftop. He decided it was time for him to go.

"We should really do lunch sometime, Scarecrow. Slices of naan bread for you, and a delicious flight of whiskey for me. What do you say? Could we be friends?"

The sneer in Scarecrow's voice was clear. "You are a fool, Riddler, with your silly little puzzles and your ridiculous bowler hat."

"Excuse me, but fashion advice from someone like you is the definition of ridiculous. Go back to Oz, Scarecrow. Maybe someday the wizard can give you a brain."

Nigma brought his cane up to block Scarecrow's hand, holding his breath as the aerosol hissed dangerously passed his face. He ignored Scarecrow's snarl of rage and dodged the other rogue's retaliatory lunge.

"While I hate to quip and dash, I always feel that a man of my intellect engaging in a battle of wits is unfair. It's far too easy to defeat an unarmed man." He gave a last mocking laugh, then turned tail and ran. Scarecrow's outraged shouts followed him, but he didn't slow down. Not even when the enraged invective turned into pained cries and there came the sound of a Batman-related scuffle.

Nigma winced and made a mental note to avoid him for the near future. He had no doubt that the Scarecrow would hold a grudge. Dr. Jonathan Crane was not known for his forgiving nature, otherwise he wouldn't wear a potato sack and terrorize the populace on a regular basis.

Nigma was panting for breath by the time he ducked into a stairwell five blocks away. He leaned against the wall and took slow breaths until his heartbeat stopped thudding in his ears and his lungs quit burning.

It seemed that everyone was out tonight. It was a regular who's who of costumed villainy. The Batman had his work cut out for him, and Nigma was happy to stay off his radar.

He would wait until things had cooled down before venturing back to the alley. He needed to get in through the door the Scarecrow had parked his van in front of, the fool. Hopefully everyone would have cleared out and his evening's plans could move forward with no more interruptions.

He did not relish the thought of having to spend the night in this stairwell.

"Stupid Batman, stupid Joker, stupid Scarecrow," Nigma muttered, crossing his arms petulantly. He let his cane dangle from his left hand and tapped it rhythmically against the side of his leg as he waited, occasionally glancing at his watch.

This was not how he had planned on spending his evening.

.

After an hour and a half, Edward Nigma deemed it worth the risk to start walking back toward his alley. He'd reversed his jacket so the solid green lining was on display, versus all the flashy question marks. He was simply a gentleman in a green suit and a purple tie, barely noticeable at all.

Nigma snorted. He was about as recognizable in his own way as the Joker.

There were times when he wished he hadn't taken those courses on branding and recognizability. He used to be able to blend into a crowd, but those days were gone. He'd bowed down to the pressure of costumed villain notoriety, though he'd at least stopped himself from providing matching costumes for his henches--he refused to think about the way his hirelings had started conforming to a dress code of their own. He refused to take responsibility, as they had provided their own dark outfits and had started calling themselves "The Riddler's Thugs" of their volition. He'd hired them for expediency; they'd turned it into a lifestyle. He washed his hands of the whole thing.

He reached the alley and saw that the van was gone. There were no signs of the Scarecrow or the Batman, though he was careful to avoid looking at a few of the suspicious, rust-colored stains on the ground. For once he would prefer to remain ignorant as to what he was seeing.

Keeping an eye out, he slipped down the alley and went to the door that led into his rental space. He kept the keys from jangling in his hand as he unlocked the door and went inside. He locked the door behind himself.

There was some fumbling to find the switch on the wall, then the 20x20 space was flooded with light.

He felt like he could breathe for the first time.

When he was young, he'd learned that safety was something he could only experience alone. His father had taught him that trust meant pain, and that truth and lies were no different if a person couldn't see through to what actually was.

He had no need for riches, though money served a purpose. He lived for puzzles and games, and sometimes his more elaborate creations required expensive materials to create.

All he needed was in this room, this wonderful haven he recreated wherever he went.

The daybed pressed against the wall with its elaborate metal frame had replaced the beautiful princess bed of his last haven. The sheets were bright blue and red with cartoon superheroes, and the comforter was a luscious deep purple. His plush dolls were arranged on the nearby night table, their bodies formless and soft--they were his squishy friends that followed him everywhere, lacking accusing eyes but always ready for him to hug.

There was a large carpet square spread on the floor. It had a racetrack design on it of winding roads and patches of green country and little houses. His action figures lay scattered where he'd left them, matchbox cars neatly lined up in front of their case.

His toys and his plushies traveled with him from hideout to hideout. Furniture was easily replaced, but his treasures were important to him.

Everything he loved fit into his large traveling trunk. It would be a disaster if he were to ever lose his things. His father had destroyed so many of his memories when he was young. He could still smell the scent of burning plastic and cloth, could hear the faint squeak of escaping air as his toys and his baby dolls melted into a formless mass in the bonfire his father had lit as soon as they returned home from Mommy's funeral.

He'd stood there and watched his things burn, his father's hand clamped to the back of his neck. The smell of whiskey burned his nose as that nightmare voice rasped in his ear: "It should have been you. You killed her." And he believed it was true. It should have been him folded up in the silk-lined coffin, lowered down into the ground, safe away from the monster his once loving father had become.

Removing his mask, Nigma let the Riddler slip away. He was simply Eddie here. There were no expectations laid against his shoulders and there was no one to impress.

Moving around the room, Nigma stripped off his Riddler outfit and tucked it into the laundry basket next to the wardrobe trunk. Grabbing his pajamas, he walked into the small bathroom and quickly washed in the narrow shower stall, scrubbing his body until his skin was pink and clean.

Buttoning the soft cotton shirt of his pajamas and tying the strings on the pants into a neat bow, he padded barefoot to his bed and crawled under the covers. He reached for his favorite plushie, Question Mark, and hugged the vaguely human-shaped doll to his chest.

Tomorrow morning he would pack up his trunk and find a new room before meeting his henchmen. With the Batman and Scarecrow both having seen him in the alley, he could not risk returning to this little haven again.

He yawned and closed his eyes. He needed his rest, as he would have a busy day tomorrow.

.*.*.*.

The C-Street tunnel was located in the university district, which meant there was usually a crush of people wandering around. College students rushing to class (or away from class) didn't give Nigma a second look as he ambled down the street. In this area his green suit and bowler hat were positively staid in comparison to the outfits others wore. In fact, he passed by two girls dressed like Harley Quinn, one Mad Hatter, and a young ambiguously gendered individual dressed as the second Robin.

The authorities had tried on occasion to stop the costumed hijinks, but it had done no good. There was no law against people dressing as they wished, no matter how ill-advised. People had quickly learned that dressing as the Joker was a deadly mistake--to him imitation was not the sincerest form of flattery, but a mockery he refused to accept. For the other costumed rogues of Gotham, they had no recourse against their fans dressing like them.

The tunnel was in view when Nigma heard the screech of tires as a beige colored van pulled up next to him, the sliding door jerked open by one of the large men inside.

"Oh for..."

Nigma was pulled off his feet and into the van, his cane wrested out of his hand. He grunted when his knees hit the bare metal floor and he was pressed down on his face. His arms were twisted uncomfortably behind his back.

The sliding door slammed shut. The van swayed as it screeched off.

"What is this?" Nigma asked as soon as he could catch a breath. There was a knee pressed uncomfortably against his spine.

"Quiet," a rough voice ordered. "The boss wants to have a word with you."

Having recognized the van from the night before and the general sense of "powder keg of violence ready to explode" from the men, Nigma decided he did not want to visit the Scarecrow.

He kicked his feet and twisted his body, hoping to get free. Throwing himself out of a fast moving vehicle could be dangerous, but he thought it better than being taken to the Scarecrow. He had a definite aversion to fear toxin and would prefer broken bones to being rendered a gibbering, mindless mess terrified of his own shadow.

All his shouting and thrashing earned him was a punch to the gut.

He lay on the floor of the van gasping for breath. He could barely groan as he was jerked up onto his knees and his wrists were secured behind his back with a zip tie. The plastic was pulled so tight he worried about the circulation being cut off to his fingers. He could imagine them already bloating up like sausages ready to drop off. There were some times when he truly hated his over-anxious mind.

He considered fighting more, but decided it was better to save his strength. He let himself be arranged in a sitting position with his back against the solid metal wall. Being able to see the sliding door was like a taunt, a dare to try it.

The eyes of the Scarecrow's goons gleamed as they watched him. Nigma pretended at a calm unconcern he didn't feel. He refused to show them his fear.

He would need to make his escape as soon as possible.

The van drove for what felt like hours, but what his meticulous brain calculated as thirty minutes barring stops for traffic. Calculating the distance and their probable destination, Nigma wasn't surprised to be hustled out of the van and into a warehouse. The signs he glimpsed marked it closed Thursday to Sunday, which meant there was no one to interfere.

Mentally, Nigma sighed. He had been hoping there might be someone around to call the police on his behalf. If it weren't daytime, he might even wish for the appearance of the Batman to save him. Irony.

Refusing to let himself be manhandled more than necessary, Nigma deigned to walk past the stacks of crates and the quiescent heavy machinery. The hands wrapped around his upper arms warned him to behave. He didn't give the hirelings any of his attention, and he could sense how it annoyed them. No man liked to be ignored, overlooked as a threat by the prisoner at his mercy. That's why Nigma didn't give them the satisfaction of acknowledging their presence as dangerous men.

The warehouse was a dim maze of tall racks and stacked crates and boxes. Deep in, there was a cleared space brightly spotlit by halogen bulbs. A folding table sat waiting to one side with a few smaller crates acting as chairs.

In the middle of the area, the Scarecrow lounged indolent on a stack of four crates arranged like a throne. He didn't wear his potato sack mask and his eyes were sharply piercing behind the wire frames of his glasses. There was a bruise high on his right cheek and his bottom lip was puffy and swollen, the tender flesh showing raw where it had been split.

Nigma was pushed to his knees in front of Scarecrow. One of the goons tossed the question mark cane onto a wooden crate nearby.

"Look at you now," Scarecrow said. "Not so clever, are you?"

Nigma relaxed back on his heels and cocked his head. "I see you had a run in with the Batman. I hope he treated you as gently as you deserve."

Scarecrow growled and was on his feet nearly faster than Nigma could react. Hampered by his trapped hands, Nigma barely scrambled out of the way of the kick Scarecrow aimed at his side. "Shut your mouth before I sew it shut."

Nigma didn't think it was an idle threat. There was a more than good chance he wasn't going to get away undamaged. If he managed to get away at all.

Scarecrow turned to his underlings. "I've got this. Go make sure we're undisturbed."

The underling that had punched Nigma in the stomach and brought his cane hesitated when his partner turned to go. He gave Nigma a doubtful look. "Are you sure you...?"

"I told you I have this!" Scarecrow shouted. "Get out of my sight."

The underling scuttled off, his shoulders hunched as though waiting for a blow.

"You should be nicer to your underlings," Nigma said. "It would be a shame if someone talked them into turning against you."

"Was that a threat?"

"A threat? From moi?" Nigma laughed, putting as much confidence in it as he could. "What could you ever have to fear from me?"

Scarecrow's look was distrustful. "You left me to Batman's not-so-tender mercies last night. Look at my face. I should beat you black and blue." There was a disturbing gleam to his eyes as he said "black and blue," making the words pop.

It hurt with his wrists so tightly confined, but Nigma worked against the zip tie. There was a slight sharpened edge on the side of his watch. It wasn't much, but given enough time he would be able to get his hands free. He just needed to keep the Scarecrow distracted from noticing what he was doing.

He dropped his voice down to a low purr. "Really, Jonathan, do you honestly want to hurt me?" He splayed his legs and leaned back on his right hand, his left still working his watch against the tough plastic of the zip tie. He gave Scarecrow a sleepy-eyed look. "Aren't you lonely? Wouldn't you rather... enjoy my company?"

Scarecrow's face twisted. "You're disgusting. How dare you..." He fell into an incoherent rage. An unintelligible flood of words escaped his lips as he began pacing back and forth, his hands waving and his steps jerky with his agitation.

"I thought you liked me. I've seen you watching me. Back when you were Dr. Crane, I'd catch you standing outside my cell where you thought I couldn't see you." Nigma smiled at him. "I knew you wanted me then. Don't you still want me now?"

He felt a surge of triumph when the zip tie gave under his assault. He caught it before it could hit the floor, setting it down silently. He subtly rubbed the pain from his wrists, hiding his winces.

Scarecrow was still spluttering. "I never... You're wrong. He never wanted you to... I... I... You're a reprehensible man, Nigma."

"Oh. So it's not dear Dr. Crane that I'm talking to now? You're really just the Scarecrow alone?" He pulled his right leg under him, flexing his thighs and arching his neck back. "Why don't you let Jonathan out to play, Scarecrow? I can show him that there's so much more pleasure in life than simple fear."

"Be quiet!" Scarecrow barked. His pacing was becoming more erratic, his hands shoving through his hair. He was muttering to himself, his voice rising and falling from shouts into whispers. A handheld scythe had appeared in his fist, the blade making a whistling sound as it moved through the air.

Watching him, Nigma was actually quite worried. He risked a glance toward his question mark cane. If he could reach it, he could get away. He'd be armed with something more lethal than the sword cane of the night before.

Taking the chance that Scarecrow was distracted, Nigma leapt to his feet and lunged toward his cane.

His blood was pumping loud in his ears and he was experiencing the rush of fight or flight. He could feel Scarecrow behind him, an inch away from ripping into him, and he was just that one step faster.

Grabbing the cane, he whirled around in time to block the scythe before it could bite into his neck. He bared his teeth as he knocked the scythe away and swung at Scarecrow's face.

Scarecrow ducked and jabbed, tearing the lapel of Nigma's jacket. Nigma danced backward, fending off Scarecrow's blindingly fast slashes. There was no chance to get his cane into position to unleash the lethal measures. He was barely staying alive.

Scarecrow danced around in a violent frenzy. Nigma dodged the scythe to receive a punch to the shoulder followed up by a slash that would have gutted him if it had landed. The pocket of his jacket tore free to flutter to the ground.

Sweat poured down Nigma's forehead to sting his eyes. He was in a battle to the death; there was no chance to wipe the sweat away.

He grunted when a pointed shoe kicked his right shin. Scarecrow pressed his advantage and somehow Nigma found himself bent backward over a crate, his arm straining as he used his cane to hold Scarecrow's scythe away from his skin. The inner edge gleamed razor sharp. He could almost see his blood coating the metal. He needed to defuse the situation fast, or he was going to die.

"Is this really what you want to do?" he panted out. "Wouldn't you rather discuss things like gentlemen?"

"No. I think I want to see you bleed." The scythe moved closer and Nigma gritted his teeth as he strained to hold it away. "I'm going to cut that pretty skin to tatters."

"You think I'm pretty?" Nigma's mind was racing, scrambling to find a way to save himself. Pieces of information slotted themselves into place and a rudimentary plan was forming.

Scarecrow sounded outraged. "You're insane!"

"Like calls to like," Nigma said. He tried to hook Scarecrow's ankle, but Scarecrow was surprisingly agile. Nigma winced as his spine was forced against the edge of the crate. "Though darling, I've never been one to enjoy pain."

"You're sick, Riddler."

Nigma pouted. "Why don't you call me Edward, like you used to? I could hear your whispers, you know, your softly spoken wishes that I have a good night." Careful of the hooked end of the scythe, he leaned his face closer to Crane's snarling visage. "Won't you come out and visit me, Jonathan? We could be so good together."

Even with the terror that the Scarecrow was going to kill him, Nigma couldn't help feeling a bit of a thrill. There was something about danger that brought out the worst in him, the parts he'd folded away long ago and promised himself he'd never feel again. Yet here those impulses were, deliciously on display.

"What are you talking about?" Scarecrow demanded.

"Scarecrow, why don't you let dear Jonathan out? We could keep each other... company." Nigma leaned forward, ignoring the danger of the scythe, and licked his lips. He stared directly into Scarecrow's eyes, seeing the way the man's eyelids fluttered.

"You're... you're..." The scythe sagged a little, the pressure on Nigma's cane weakening.

Nigma pushed the scythe out of the way and pressed forward into Scarecrow's space. A wild sense of euphoria was overtaking him--anything could happen past this point.

He held Scarecrow's scythe hand to one side and kissed him. Their chests pressed together and their feet nudged against each other. And Nigma could taste the copper of blood as Scarecrow's split lip reopened under his assault.

Scarecrow snarled at the sudden pain and viciously bit at Nigma's mouth, his teeth snapping. Nigma jerked his face back just in time.

"What are you doing, you disgusting..." Scarecrow's angry snarl trailed off into silence. His face twitched and there was a softening to his gaze. "Edward, what are you doing?

Nigma smiled. "Hello, Jonathan. It's nice to see you."

Crane gave him a look that mixed hurt and confusion. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you're beautiful like this, flustered and malleable," Nigma said. "I could do anything I want to you, and I don't think you'd ever tell me no."

"What are you talking about?" Crane asked. Color crept up his neck and over his cheeks--embarrassment and the shock of arousal. He was softer than the Scarecrow personality, more sensitive and caring, easier to manipulate.

"You like me, don't you?" Nigma curved his lips seductively. "You're in lust with me. If I wanted to, I could make you fall in love with me."

Crane's blush faded to shocked white. "Shut up! You don't know what you're talking about."

Nigma laughed, lightly mocking, but not aiming to wound. "I love puzzles, but you're not a very difficult one to solve. You like the way I look. You like the sound of my voice. You want to fuck me, don't you?" He raised his left eyebrow, a quiet taunt. He knew the expressions that made his face appealing, the looks that drew people in or turned them away.

He knew puzzles, and Crane's attraction to him had been in front of him all along. It was no wonder the Scarecrow--ever jealous of Jonathan's attentions--would have such antipathy toward him. Nigma had power over Crane if he was only willing to take it.

There was the gleam of sweat on Crane's upper lip and his eyes were wide and startled. "I don't want to... to..."

It was easy as breathing, Nigma kissed him again. "You don't need to lie to me. I've known that you wanted me for a long time."

There was the trace of hurt in Crane's voice as he asked, "Then why did you leave me to get hit by Batman?"

Nigma smiled. "Because I knew you could take it."

"What?"

"Your Scarecrow, he's a strong fighter," Nigma said. "I respect that in a man. And here you are, not in jail, not too beat up. You're strong too, Jonathan." He lowered his voice. "I like it."

Crane flushed to the tips of his ears. Nigma slid his knee between Crane's legs and could feel him hardening against his thigh. Crane grunted at the pressure against his crotch. "Ung."

Nigma laughed. There was such a sense of power. "You know you like me. I know you like me. Why do you have to make things so difficult?" He pressed harder against Crane, who instinctively rocked his hips forward, humping Nigma's leg. "I don't think you're going to kill me, are you?"

"I..." Crane's pupils were dilated to pinpricks and he was unconsciously grinding against Nigma's leg. His breath came a little fast. "You're confusing me."

"You're the only one confused about what's going on here," Nigma said. He snaked his head down to lick a stripe up the column of Crane's throat. He could feel the flutter of Crane's pulse against his lips when he paused there for a quick nuzzle and a delicate nibble. It would be so easy to rip that throat out. Easy and wasteful.

Crane shivered, his thighs tightening around Nigma's leg. "What do you mean?"

Nigma smiled slowly as he said, "You're going to fuck me next time we meet."

"Wha-at?" Crane stuttered, his breath catching.

"Next time we meet," Nigma said, "I'm going to let you bend me over and have your way with me."

Crane was bright red, his lips trembling, but Nigma could feel him getting even harder against his leg. Nigma chuckled and pressed closer to Crane, pushing at his hand until the scythe slipped from his lax grip to clatter on the floor.

At this moment, Crane was at his mercy. Nigma could do whatever he wanted to him. Could kill him if he liked. Instead he kissed him again, licking into his mouth. The curve of his question mark cane dug into Crane's shoulder as he hugged the other man close, raising his leg up and down against him. He was amused to feel Crane matching his rhythm, grinding against him.

"Next time, I'll let you fuck me. But this time," he chuckled as he took a step back, "I'm going to make you scream my name."

Crane's eyes were wide and his lips fell open in shocked surprise when Nigma went down on his knees in front of him. "Edward..."

Nigma chuckled, setting his cane down beside him to reach up and grasp both sides of Crane's pants. "Exactly right," he said, yanking down.

There was a heartbeat where he wondered if he'd miscalculated the tightness of the material, then the pants slipped over Crane's narrow hips and Nigma dropped them to pool around Crane's ankles. He leaned forward to nuzzle against Crane's erection through the gray boxer briefs. He could feel that spot of wetness growing against his cheek as Crane realized what he was offering.

"You... you're not going to..."

"Oh, I am." Nigma tugged the shorts down enough to release Crane's erection. He was momentarily surprised to see that the man was uncut, then mentally shrugged and wrapped his mouth around Crane's cock.

The breathy sounds that escaped Crane's throat as Nigma bobbed his head and hollowed his cheeks when he sucked were a nice compliment. He didn't have very much experience with sex involving another person, and only two brief encounters with other men, which meant he couldn't precisely gauge his own skill. So it felt good to hear the sounds of Crane's appreciation as he worked.

He hummed and poked his tongue into the slit, tasting salty and viscous precome. It should have been disgusting--biology was gross--but the hitch in Crane's breathing and the vaguely helpless rocking of his hips was oddly pleasant. He could feel Crane making starfish hands against the back of his head, not daring to grab his hair and just face-fuck him the way he obviously wanted.

Nigma's jaw was beginning to ache when Crane said "Oh Edward" in a shocked voice and spurted down Nigma's throat. He swallowed every drop, not wanting to deal with the clean up involved with letting it stain his clothing.

In another time and place he would have been frightened about sharing bodily fluid with another person--there were so many horrible diseases out there--but with Crane he wasn't worried. There were very few people that would dare to have sex with the Scarecrow, and Arkham ran strict blood tests on its inmates, quarantining the physically ill to a ward of their own. He knew that he wasn't sick, and since Crane had only recently escaped his normal cell his last blood panel must have shown clear too.

"That was wonderful," Crane's tone was reverent as he stood catching his breath.

Nigma helpfully pulled Crane's shorts and pants back up, adjusting Crane's cock with a proprietary touch. "Was that a thank you I heard?"

"Thank you," Crane said.

"You're very welcome," Nigma replied, gently patting the front of Crane's pants. He sat back on his haunches. "I hate to ruin the mood, but I really must go." He glanced at his watch, hiding his wince. "I've got plans that need finishing."

Crane stood gazing down at him. Even with the afterglow lightening his expression, the contemplation in his eyes was clear. "Did you fellate me to save yourself? Should I feel guilty that I've committed a sexual assault?"

Nigma's amused laughter rang loudly as he climbed to his feet, scooping up his cane. "Do you honestly believe that I blew you to save myself? No, no." He kissed Crane, licked the fresh blood from his split lip. "I sucked you off because I wanted to, Jonathan. I was curious about how you taste."

"And what do you think?" Crane cocked his head, oddly birdlike.

"You taste delicious." Nigma licked his lips, liking the way Crane followed the motion with his eyes. "I think I might make it a regular thing. Tasting you."

Crane really was quite pretty when he blushed. Nigma resolved to cause it as often as possible.

"You should probably stay away from me," Crane said. "Scarecrow will try to hurt you. He's still mad."

"We're all a little mad, dear, didn't you know?" He pressed a gentle kiss to Crane's bruised lip. "Put some ointment on that lip. I don't like the thought of you being in pain."

"I will," Crane said. "Let me walk you out. I'll have someone drive you back to where you were."

"Thank you." Nigma brushed imaginary lint off Crane's shoulder simply for the excuse to touch him again.

They walked side-by-side through the warehouse. The looks on Scarecrow's henchmen's faces on seeing them acting like old friends nearly made Nigma laugh out loud.

"See you around," he said. He lowered his voice, "Next time you'll have to remove your glasses to keep them from fogging." He fluttered his lashes in a wink.

As he swaggered to the van, he could feel Crane watching him from where he posed in the doorway. Oddly enough, that stare made him feel beautiful, desirable in a way he'd never bothered to experience before.

He didn't know where this thing with Crane was going to go, but he was curious enough to let events play out. At the very least, twitting the Scarecrow was worth a laugh or two.

After climbing into the front seat of the van, he glanced at the warehouse. Crane was still watching him from the doorway, his eyes gleaming avid behind his glasses. Nigma smiled and gave him a wink. It was worth it to see the color spread over Crane's cheeks.

He couldn't wait to see what happened the next time they met. It should be fun.

* * *

Watching the van drive away, Jonathan reached up to touch his lips with two fingers. He could still feel the ghost of Edward's kisses.

He smiled. Next time.

 


	2. Flight 01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of Flight. Broken into parts bc I'm lazy.
> 
> Scarecrow--angry at Nigma--gets his chemical revenge, hurting everyone in the process.

Jonathan tried not to think of Edward. Scarecrow didn't like it when he did it, and his loud grumblings had gradually bled out into random cruelty. The waspishness of his tempter made Jonathan want to cringe, it was a constant violent buzz in the back of his mind.

If Scarecrow came into contact with Edward, Jonathan feared for what would happen. He didn't want Edward to be hurt, much less killed by his alter-ego.

It would be hard having sex with a dead man, so he would have to do his best to keep Scarecrow distracted. The difficult part would be hiding what he was doing from Scarecrow, as Scarecrow would be infuriated if he thought Jonathan was trying to manipulate him.

Sometimes it was difficult being a costumed criminal with multiple personalities. Especially when his second personality was all aggression, rage, and an inability to let go of a grudge.

If it were up to Scarecrow, Edward would die screaming, his heart unable to withstand the concentrated effect of pain and fear. And once Edward died, Scarecrow would display the body where everyone could see what happened to those that touched Jonathan.

Part protective urge, part jealousy, all Scarecrow's need to be Jonathan's only one. There were times when Jonathan wanted to push Scarecrow far away, free himself from his oppressive presence, and live his life for himself. But Scarecrow was part of him, the strongest part.

Scarecrow was going to be with him forever. Which meant that all he could do was somehow get Scarecrow to at least tolerate Edward's presence in their shared life. But how was he ever going to manage that?

* * *

Edward winced when he bumped one of his bruises against the candy display. The cashier behind the mini-mart's cash register gave him a surprised look, her eyes taking in the mess the Batman had made of his face. Bruises on bruises, with eyes so swollen it was a wonder he could see.

Edward nudged the bottles of over the counter painkillers toward her as well as the overpriced bottle of chocolate milk. He didn't try a charming smile on her, knowing it would look ghastly on his current face.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to call anyone?" she asked.

"I am fine," he said, hating how garbled his words sounded. "I just need to get home to my icepack."

"I'll say," the customer behind him spoke up. "You look like crap, man."

Edward shifted uncomfortably under the dual expressions of shocked pity. Narcissist he may be, but this kind of attention he'd never enjoyed. It felt too much like his personal power was being snatched away from him. He hated being perceived as weak.

"You should see the other guy," he said. "He's perfectly fine, but I do believe he bruised his fist a little on my face."

The cashier rung up his purchases, putting them in a paper bag. "I hope you filed a complaint with the police. It looks like whoever it was tried to kill you. I can see finger-shaped marks on your neck."

Edward pictured trying to file an assault claim against the Batman. Everyone on the street knew the vigilante had the Commissioner's tacit protection, evidence against him disappearing without a trace. If Edward said anything, maybe he would disappear too, locked in a cell with no prisoner record and no release date.

He shuddered a little. "I'll be all right. I'm up and walking around and with some ice packs and rest I'll be good as new."

She gave him a doubtful look, but accepted the money he held out with one trembling hand. He nearly snatched the bag off the counter and hurried out of the store.

He ached all the way to his bones. More than anything he wanted the safety of his bed and the comfort of his painkillers.

He didn't know what he'd done to set the Batman off, but the "hero" had been particularly brutal with his treatment. The smack of fists on flesh counterpointed by the man's heavy breathing and somehow satisfied grunts of effort as he'd pounded Edward's face and chest. He hadn't even said anything before he'd begun his assault--he'd simply shoved Edward into an alley and begun hitting him.

And when it was all over, there'd been the sound of a grappling gun and the Batman was gone, leaving Edward sobbing helplessly amongst the garbage. It had taken him nearly twenty minutes to get himself together enough to find his feet.

He knew he was a mess of blood, snot, and tears. He'd caught glimpses of his reflection in the windows of cars he'd passed, and he'd flinched away from his own bruised face. But at least no bones seemed to be broken, so that was good.

Edward stumbled down the street, intent on reaching his safe place. He needed to go to ground, where he could lick his wounds in peace and maybe-- _probably_ \--cry some more.

There was an impotent sense of injustice building in his chest. It was the same sense of "What did I do? Why are you hurting me Daddy?" that he remembered from childhood. And he hated it, how weak and small it made him feel.

 _I hate you_ , he thought toward the Batman. He hated him for the undeserved beating--he'd been heading to lunch, he hadn't even done anything!--and hated him for the way the beating made him feel, emotional pain inexorably mixed with the physical.

 _I'm gonna make you sorry_. It was a promise he meant to keep.

Edward stumbled toward home.

* * *

"How are you, sir?" Alfred asked.

Bruce groaned and rubbed his face. His head pounded dully with pain. "What happened?"

"You were drugged, sir. Hopefully it's all been taken out of your system, but it made you hyper-aggressive and flooded your body with dangerous levels of testosterone. You nearly died," Alfred said. "Even just a little longer and your heart would have burst from the strain."

"Oh." Bruce had only vague memories of the last few days. He was afraid to remember more-- _the dark satisfaction of punching yielding flesh. The pleasing sound of whimpering cries and a voice begging him to_ stop, stop, please stop, _while arousal built heavy between his legs and..._ \--"Selena? Oh my God, what did I do? Alfred, what did I do?"

Alfred laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, keeping him on the bed. "Miss Selena knocked you unconscious after she realized you were acting unlike yourself. Master Dick brought you home."

Bruce sunk wearily onto the bed. He felt so tired, his body weak. "I didn't hurt her?" he asked, prodding at his jumbled memories. He could have sworn that there had been someone crying and pleading, body going pliant beneath him, submissive.

"She is fine, sir. Apparently you kissed her and were becoming quite amorous when she realized you weren't yourself." Alfred sounded amused, the gentle sting of mockery not aiming to hurt. "It is lucky she did not take advantage of your out of control state."

"Oh." Bruce still felt as if he were missing something, but his head hurt too much for him to concentrate. The memories were disconnected and hazy. He could already feel them fading away.

Alfred didn't seem concerned about anything he'd done, so his testosterone-addled brain must have created the sick delusion that plagued him--of punching yielding flesh, of weakness spread out before him, of knowing he could do whatever he wanted as the conqueror of weaker prey, submissive prey that wouldn't object to anything he decided to do.

"Oh," he said again. What a terrible dream he'd had. "Thank goodness you were able to help me."

"It's all right, sir." Alfred smoothed a hand across Bruce's forehead, palm warm and dry. "Now that you're more yourself, I will get you something to eat. Stay in bed."

Bruce followed that gentle command even after Alfred left the room. He was tired and achy like after getting over the flu. But Alfred would take care of him and everything would be all right. Alfred always made things better.


	3. Flight 02

Curled on his bed with an ice pack shoved against his face, Edward allowed himself to cry.

He'd looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he used a washcloth to remove the worst of the blood and mess from his bruise-mottled skin. He looked like some grotesque monster, his face swollen and lumpy. There were finger-shapes pressed into the skin around his neck like spread butterfly wings, four fingers and a thumb on each side of his clavicle.

His chest and stomach were covered in fist marks, darker purple patches raised amongst the surrounding red and blue. The Batman had focused largely on his front, though there was a nasty pain in his right shoulder blade--it hurt to lift his arm.

He felt and looked terrible. The Batman had really done a number to him, and he'd been helpless to stop it.

Edward reached out and grabbed his favorite baby doll from the other side of the bed. He tucked it close against his chest and clamped his free arm tight around it, the feel of the squishy body relieving something tight in his chest. With Baby against his arm, he felt as though someone loved him.

Even knowing it was illogical, hugging the doll made him feel safer. Neither the Batman or the rest of the world could get him as long as he was on his bed and Baby was with him. He could breathe and heal and no one would find him in the safety of his haven.

His face throbbed, the painkillers barely having taken the edge off. He'd used only the recommended dosage and wasn't willing to take any more. The last thing he needed was a late night trip to the emergency room to have his stomach pumped. The explanations alone would be too much for him to bear.

Edward hugged the doll and closed his aching eyes. Maybe if he slept he would wake up feeling better.  
He didn't imagine that he could possibly feel worse.

.

He was wrong. Waking up was a nightmare of sore bruises intermixed with sharper aches and pains. The Batman had really done a number on him.

Little whimpers escaped his throat as he levered himself off the bed and hobbled to the bathroom. A shower might ease some of the pain if only he could make it in there. It seemed like a near impossible journey; ten feet that might as well have been ten miles. Part of him was tempted to go back to bed, except he didn't think he could manage turning around without falling.

Doggedly he put one foot in front of the other and went into the bathroom. Then it was a few minutes of jaw-clenching pain as he took his clothes off and stepped into the shower. He breathed out a sigh of relief the moment hot water began pouring down over his body, loosening the tightness.

Small whimpering sounds escaped his throat as he soaped a washcloth and washed away the blood and dirt.

If he could have killed the Batman he would have done it. To take that nightmare and crush it into nothingness; he could imagine his aches and pains being soothed away by revenge. But he really didn't want to see what the Joker would do to Gotham if his favorite toy was destroyed by someone else.

There was a reason why the Batman was still alive and lurking around. The man may have believed it was his own skill or his reputation as the terror that flapped in the night, but what it really came down to was the Joker and how murderous he would be if his bat-shaped nemesis was ever permanently decommissioned.

Edward ducked his head under the water. A long rinse was the best he could manage when his arms refused to reach up high enough to grab the shampoo. He couldn't even run his fingers through his hair, his shoulders hurting too much when he tried.

He stared at his feet as black grit and other debris swirled down the drain. He had vague memories of his head bouncing against various surfaces as he was slammed around limply.

 _I'm lucky he didn't kill me_. It was a sobering thought, one he tried his best to ignore. He wasn't up to thinking of his own fragile mortality at the moment.

He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the hot water. It wasn't going to last much more than half an hour and he was already dreading having to get out.

The thought of drying off with a towel seemed like an impossible task. He was already wincing away from the pain to come.

Edward slowly rotated under the water, letting it sluice over every bit of him. He was surprised by the myriad of bruises decorating his skin. He ignored how some of them were finger-shaped, only larger than human because they'd been made by armored gauntlets.

When the water started getting cold, he reluctantly turned it off. Then came the arduous task of drying himself with a towel and tugging on a pair of underwear.

He usually wore a matching set of pajamas, but underwear was all he could manage. So it was with a sense of being half-dressed that he stumbled to his bed and crawled beneath the covers.

It was near to impossible to find a comfortable position. No matter how he lay, some bruise was being pressed against the mattress. He was sure that even his hair was hurting.

"Ugh," he moaned, forcing his eyes closed.

If he was lucky he wouldn't feel any worse when he woke up. It was something to hope for.

.

Edward woke with the half-delirious sense that he was drowning. It hurt to draw in a full breath and there was a growing discomfort in his belly.

He bit back whines of pain as he rolled out of bed and hobbled to the bathroom. He switched on the smaller of the two lights before approaching the toilet.

It took a long time for the pee to start coming, and when it did he couldn't hold back a pained moan. Tears burned in his eyes as the urine sputtered before beginning to flow.

"Oh no." It didn't look like pee, being a dark and murky orangish-red. The last few dribbles looked like pure blood.

With shaking hands he carefully ran his fingers over his stomach. He winced at the soreness and noticed that there was tightness in the muscles and a just visible amount of swelling.

He didn't trust hospitals, but he needed a doctor. Someone that could come to him and see him in privacy.  
Unfortunately he didn't have anyone he could call. His usual back alley physician had died a terrible death the month before, victim of a dissatisfied patient.

Edward barely made it back to the bed. He was losing his strength and his stomach was beginning to swell with trapped fluid.

He refused to die such an ignoble death.


	4. Flight 03

An unexpected phone call at two in the morning. Very few people would try to reach Jonathan Crane without some warning, as there was a real possibility of getting a face full of the Scarecrow's fear toxin in retaliation for the rude wake up call.  
  
But it was Jonathan fully in charge once he realized that the gasping voice belonged to Edward Nigma. He forced the Scarecrow down deep and listened in growing concern as Edward outlined his current predicament. How the man had gotten his phone number was not something he questioned--it was the Riddler after all.  
  
"Tell me where you are," he ordered.  
  
There was a worryingly long moment of silence. Then Edward rattled off an address followed by a "Hurry" before hanging up.  
  
Ignoring Scarecrow's dark mutters about setups and betrayal, Jonathan dressed and gathered a few supplies.  
  
It had been years since his medical rotation, but he'd had plenty of practice in recent years. Very few people wanted to give themself over to his care--afraid of what the legendary Master of Fear would do--but he'd handled his own wounds and those of his henchmen.  
  
With his medical bag taking up the passenger seat, he drove to the semi-questionable neighborhood where Edward was holed up.  
  
He wasn't impressed by what he saw, but considering some of his own bases of operation he chose to withhold opinion. Until he used the security code Edward had given him on the keypad and got inside. It was then that he decided the way Edward was living was sad.  
  
Darkness was the first thing he saw. He fumbled his flashlight keychain out of his pocket and clicked it on. There still wasn't much to see, just stacks of cardboard boxes printed with the logo of a popular moving company. Jonathan restrained his natural curiosity--Edward could be dying while he dallied.  
  
He wandered through the maze of boxes until he found the door to Edward's room. It took a second code to unlock it.  
  
He drew in a deep breath before turning the knob and pushing the door open. Light flooded out. He tucked his keychain back in his pocket.  
  
"Edward? It is I, Jonathan."  
  
He paused at the threshold, caution telling him this was the perfect position to be shot in.  
  
At least I won't see it coming, he thought, squinting against the light.  
  
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. And when they did, he let out a startled cry and ran toward the bed. "Oh good heavens. Are you all right?"  
  
Jonathan tried to keep himself under control as he opened his medical bag and set to work. He kept up a low murmur of soothing dialogue, saying anything that came to mind. He couldn't let his hands shake as he sliced his scalpel through the taut and swollen skin.  
  
Though he had not been prepared to perform surgery, he didn't allow himself to hesitate. Edward was depending on him.  
  
"I will save your life," Jonathan said to Edward's unresponsive form. He could feel the life rushing warm around his gloved fingers as he sutured lacerated tissue and used a syringe to remove the excess blood filling Edward's abdomen.  
  
He ignored his own sense of worry as he worked. Once Edward was awake Jonathan would find out what had happened to him.  
  
* * *  
  
There was pain. Edward knew that much. But whatever drugs Jonathan was pumping through his veins kept the pain a distant non-priority. It let him drift until his thoughts began to coalesce back together.  
  
He opened his eyes and realized that he was coherent for the first time in who knew how long. For all he knew he could have been insensible for days if not weeks or months.  
  
He gazed at where Jonathan stood in the doorway with his back to the room. He was talking into his phone, his voice low enough that Edward couldn't quite hear what he was saying. It was a murmur of sound, the rise and fall of a familiar cadence. It was soothing.  
  
After listening to Jonathan speak for a while, it was a relief when he hung up the phone. He stayed in the doorway, his arms dropping to his sides. The phone hung from his right hand.  
  
Edward had to clear his throat and his voice came out as a dull rasp, but his words were recognizable. "You came."  
  
Jonathan whirled around, his expression lit with something that nearly made Edward flinch. His pulse beat loudly in his hears a few times before settling.  
  
"Of course I came." Jonathan strode to the side of the bed. He tucked the cellphone in his trouser pocket and reached to take Edward's hand.  
  
"Your hands are cold," Edward said. "You should take better care of yourself."  
  
Jonathan laughed, though it sounded a bit like choking or tears that wouldn't come. "You're a fool. You nearly died."  
  
"I knew you would save me," Edward said. He'd had hope at least. A mad need to believe that he was not going to die.  
  
"What happened to you?" Jonathan leaned his hip against the side of the bed. He massaged his fingers into the meat of Edward's palm. "How were you attacked?"  
  
Edward snorted a laugh that painfully choked off. He swallowed down a cough. "The Batman. He caught me unawares and seemed to be in quite a fury" was what he tried to say. But he couldn't be certain how clear his words sounded.  
  
"Batman." Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "Hm."  
  
"What will you do?" Edward asked. It sounded more like " _What wi' 'ou do?_ " but Jonathan seemed to understand.  
  
"Don't worry. You rest." Jonathan ran his free hand through Edward's hair, pushing it back from his forehead. "Back alley surgery isn't something you bounce back from so easily. Don't try to get up."  
  
Edward might have objected--he was free to do as he pleased--but he realized that he was too tired to do much of anything.  
  
He wanted to rest. It was his decision to close his eyes and relax under Jonathan's ministrations.  
  
He drifted away with the knowledge that everything was going to be all right. Considering his current state of helplessness, he couldn't do anything else. He would allow himself to believe Jonathan would keep him safe.  
  
 _As long as the Batman doesn't find me_ , he thought with an internal shudder.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious, google "Batman naan bread."


End file.
